


Mechanism of Addiction

by All_the_damned_vampires



Series: A Castle High and A Fortress Strong [2]
Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: Abduction, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood Drinking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, Injury, Kinktober, M/M, Sex Pollen, Thrall!Philip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 12:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12254526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: Philip can't remember what it was he didn't want anyway.





	Mechanism of Addiction

He doesn't want it.

  
Philip is alone, just the marble floors and the cold chrome furniture and the beat of his heart. No sound but that thump-thump of his pulse in his ears, the throb of that lonely beat echoing along the black sutures stitching up the left side of his neck. Black thread where he was torn up like a piece of meat.

  
From his apathetic position on the couch, he watches the light shift along the wide glass doors that lead out to the balcony. The sky brightens from light pink and cream to unearthly blue. Blue, like the concerned eyes of the boy who kept Philip from bleeding out onto the floor.

  
Philip doesn't know why Lukas bothered.

  
He can't help framing the sky in the viewfinder of his mind, the changing colors provoking his artist's eye, even through his despair. He doesn't have a camera, he never asked for one. He doesn't have things here, in Ryan's monochrome tower apartment.

  
Yesterday he was alone as well, the meals brought to his door picked over, the only break in the terrible monotony. He waited in the evening, trembling, but the door remained locked, no footsteps across the marble in the hall, and finally Philip had fallen asleep on the couch in a fitful, trembling doze. He wasn't sure if he had been relieved or not.

  
Yesterday was bad, but today is worse.

  
Philip doesn't want it. He knows, understands, on an intellectual level. Yesterday it had been the flush in his cheeks and the ache in his gut, the way he felt restless and horny. Today, it's worse. It's the involuntary thrust of his hips, the way his hand drifts down to palm uselessly at his own dick.

  
It's the pinprick of his pupils, spiraled down in the chocolate brown of his eyes. He catches sight of them in the mirror when he stumbles into the bathroom to splash water on his flushed cheeks.

He looks like a junkie.

  
He looks like his mom.

  
Philip pushes the thought away, dries off his face and slouches back to the couch, toppling down on his face. His hips rock against the couch and he muffles a scream into sweat-slick black leather.

  
He doesn't want it.

  
Nothing to be done about it. And no one to see. Even though he knows it makes it worse, Philip ruts his hips against the couch, each sharp hipbone, rising and falling in a grotesque figure-eight. It won't help. It might even make things much worse.

  
When the burn, the frustration, gets to be too much, Philip rolls back over, willow-thin fingers clawing at his crotch with graceless despair and fury. After a while he forces his shaking hand away.

He tilts his head, watches the sky. Blue deepening from azure to indigo, the color of everything in the room graying out with the dying light.

  
Will Ryan come tonight? Or will he wait until Philip is desperate enough to beg? Does it even matter to him? Does he even bother to calculate the rising need?

  
If Philip goes mad, would he even care?

  
The lights come on automatically as the sun sets, subtle little globes set around the room. Philip leaves the TV off, no light or sound, although he could use the distraction. Too many brunette heads in his mind, tilted towards flickering blue light, haze of cigarette smoke rising like a halo.

  
Too many dead he couldn't save.

  
When the door finally clicks open, Philip has risen to stand before the glass of the balcony, his cheek pressed against the cool glass. He doesn't have to look at his reflection that way.

  
The lock clicks and Philip goes still like a hunting dog on point.

  
No. No.

  
Philip turns. Ryan is standing there, back against the closed door, ankles crossed, face casual. He looks so pleasant, as long as you ignore the ripple of dark intent seething under his skin.

  
Philip can't help it. He doesn't want it, but he feels his body soften, turning towards Ryan like a sun seeking flower. His hips cock, lift. His lips part, pale pink, wet mouth open, tongue darting out to curl along the Cupid's bow of his upper lip. He tilts his neck, porcelain white skin on display, on offering. Even the Frankenstein-ugly tracks of stitching on Philip's neck don't matter now.

  
He wants. He wants so badly.

  
Ryan doesn't move, doesn't say a word. His lips are still tilted in an almost smile. Perhaps a little grimmer, after what he did, the blood he spilled. Or perhaps not.

Philip is, after all, expendable.

  
Philip hates it, but there's nothing he can do to stop the way he presents himself, the jut of his hip, dick hard and straining in his pants, hungry eyes on Ryan. If he turned, saw himself in the glass, how red would he blush at the sight? A pale, skinny boy, shirtless and in stained black jeans, posing like a street hustler.

  
Please the Master. Offer everything to him.

The chemical tie coursing through Philip's veins, enslaving him to Ryan, ensure his need, his obedience.

  
Philip takes one step, then another. In one part of his mind, the cold and greasy shame of how he saunters, seductive, hungry, submissive. The second part of his mind, the one growing stronger every day, is eager to please. It screams out for skin, for touch, for Philip to lose every part of himself.

  
Within moments they're inches apart, Philip's breath coming in pants. He can feel his whole body straining, but he holds himself back.

  
"Hello there," Ryan says mildly. Hello. How was your day. The new normal.

  
"No," Philip whispers. Because he still can. No. But Ryan's lips twist, and he steps away from the door, left leg in front and knee cocked. Expectant. Waiting.

  
Cheeks red, Philip presses close, slides his thigh along Ryan's own, pressure against his dick making his eyes cross. Rides the knee offered to him with a knowing smirk. One cold hand on the back of Philip's neck and he's gasping like a porn star, his whole body desperate for touch, for release.

  
"Good boy,"Ryan whispers and Philip moans. He feels lips on his neck, that rill of fear racing alongside the desire. Ryan laps with a cold tongue at his handiwork, exploring each black thread as Philip's breath hitches in his throat. Child's play to tear them back open.

  
Lukas isn't here now to hold the blood in.

  
Despite the fear, Philip moans. He feels his body undulate, unfurling to those cold lips dancing along his neck, that cold tongue lapping at the curve of his ear. He fists his hands in Ryan's shirt and whimpers, hungry and desperate.

On the unblemished skin of Philip's shoulder, Ryan strikes. White canines, punching through Philip's skin, blood rising to the surface.

  
It's a sharp pain, then ecstasy. Pleasure coursing through every atom of Philip's being, blood fizzing in his veins. Ryan suckles, one hand at Philip's back and the other behind his neck, like a silver screen kiss.

  
And Philip? He fucks Ryan's leg like a bitch in heat.

  
His orgasm is hard and fast and he chokes out a strangled scream as he collapses in Ryan's arms. He feels Ryan's mouth leave his neck, shivers as air hits the wet of saliva on his neck, the thin trickle of blood.

  
A small wound. A nothing. Ryan was being considerate.

  
Although standing their eye to eye, an effortless bend of the knee sees Philip in Ryan's arms, cradled like a sick parody of a child, or a bride.

  
He walks them to the bedroom.  
Philip gazes up, eyes glassy and adoring. Tonight there will be soft touches and soft words and he will stare adoringly at the man who kidnapped him and enslaved him. He'll ride the wave of endorphins, of manufactured devotion.

  
Loathing and hatred will hopefully still come in the morning.

  
For now, Philip is warm and sleepy and feeling adored. There's something in the back of his mind, some alarm, but Master is close and Master is here, pleased and pleasing.

  
He can't remember what it was he didn't want anyway.


End file.
